“I couldn’t leave you wanting,” she whispered. Then she drew back, held his face between black-gloved hands, and, looking deep into his eyes, said: “You do realise my career as a spy is over...” Gisburne could only smile stupidly in return, grateful to the Fates, or God, or whatever it was had delivered her. Had he learned then it was the Devil’s work, he would have shaken that old gentleman by the hand.
As she peered past him now, she stared aghast at the great burning hulk. “My God...”
“Ranulph’s ship,” he said. “I thought you were on it... Though what became of him...” he shook his head in despair at the thought.
She stood back then, seeming to hold back a smile. “I brought some friends,” she said.
There were six Knights Hospitallers – instantly identifiable by their black surcoats bearing the white cross; straight-backed and grave-faced beneath their gleaming helms. Their leader – a steel-grey-bearded man approaching fifty, but who looked more than a match for any guard here – immediately stepped forward. “I am Theobald of Acre,” he announced. “We come to avenge the murder of our brother, Jocelyn de Gaillard.” Gisburne grasped his gauntleted hand. Theobald lowered his voice. “And because we were told you were here...”
Gisburne frowned at his words. The Hospitaller smiled and leaned towards him. “You are Guy of Gisburne. You outwitted the Templars at Marseille. Made them look like idiots. For that alone, you shall ever be the Order’s friend.” He stepped back and raised his head. “It is St John’s Eve and we are the Knights of St John,” he said. “It is fitting that the earth be cleansed of this foul creature before the dawn.”
The others who accompanied the Hospitallers – every one of them a giant next to Mélisande – were richly clothed and armed, but bore no livery that Gisburne could recognise. He did know the face of their leader, however, for it still bore the eagle-shaped bruise he had inflicted upon it the previous night: Otto. He was now dressed in a surcoat of rich black velvet, picked out with rivets of pure silver. Gisburne could not imagine the cost of such a garment. Gisburne also recognised the fork-bearded rough who had stood against the door in the Hansa tavern – now every inch a knight. At the sight of Gisburne, he stepped forward and bowed his head. The silver details on his surcoat glinted in the firelight like stars in a night sky. “I come from Günther von Köln,” he said, his voice deep, his accent heavy. “He gives me a message: ‘No solid feelings.’” Gisburne smiled and shook his hand as heartily as he knew how.
“How did you manage all this?” he said to Mélisande.
“My womanly wiles,” she said, then shrugged. “But Sir Ranulph also helped.”
And then, from behind the main group, stepped Ranulph Le Fort. His mail had clearly seen better days, his red surcoat was worn and his sword was battered, but Gisburne could not have been more glad to see him. Ranulph grasped Gisburne’s hand with both of his.
“We must put this right,” he said. “Do not judge your father too harshly. I am here today out of love for him.”
Gisburne bowed his head. “You are most welcome,” he said.
From behind him came a deafening crack, and he turned to see the ship’s mast collapse in a great shower of sparks.
“We must move quickly,” said Gisburne. “He is here already.”
“You are our captain today,” said Ranulph. “What are your orders?”
“Answer well, Gisburne...” said Mélisande.
Gisburne clutched the strap of the quiver at his back, alongside which hung the great longbow. He turned to the Hospitaller. “Theobald – do you see that eight-sided tower to the far south-west corner? It has only one door. Put two of your men on it, and let none pass – in or out. None! All know your livery. None will challenge it.” Theobald nodded, and immediately dispatched two of his knights. “As for the rest of us,” said Gisburne, gazing towards the great, square stone keep, “our business is with the White Tower. Follow me.” And as one they strode away across the castle ward.
“OUR FOE IS heavily armoured,” said Gisburne as they went. “Swords and crossbows are nothing to him. Do not rely on them. His main weapon is a heavy hammer. Against that there is no defence, not even from your helms. And he has Greek Fire, which he shoots to a distance of up to ten yards. Do not get close. Do not engage him hand-to-hand.”
“Then how are we to fight him?” said a bemused Ranulph.
“Tire him. Trip him. Keep him down if he falls, and call upon the others. If he charges, dodge him. Strike from behind, or at any weak point you see. But do not face him.” The assembled army exchanged troubled looks at these words.
“And you?” said Mélisande. “What will you do?”
“I must get to Prince John before the Red Hand does.”
“But he is depending on you doing that,” muttered Galfrid.
“There’s nothing else I can do,” said Gisburne.
As they approached the keep, Gisburne caught the eye of a boy carrying a basket of bread towards the garrison – a half-familiar face. Immediately, the boy dropped his gaze to the ground and hurried off. Gisburne looked back at the assembled band. It was hardly surprising, he supposed, that it should inspire such fear in the lad. In the past hour his forces had grown from two to fifteen – hardened fighters, every one. But he still was not sure it would be enough.
“No one to challenge us,” said Galfrid as they marched towards the forebuilding that protected the keep. As they rounded it, Gisburne looked up the stone steps to the keep’s entrance.
“And still only one guard upon the door,” muttered Gisburne.
“A disgrace!” said Theobald.
“But predictable,” said Galfrid.
They clattered up the steps towards him. The guard – apparently without fear – stepped across the door to bar their way.
“There is an intruder in the Tower,” said Gisburne. “Step away, in the name of Prince John.”
“And the Count of Boulogne,” chipped in Mélisande.
“And God,” added Theobald.
Otto simply loomed over the man. “Move,” he growled.
The guard straightened his back and looked at Gisburne. “You may pass, sire, for I know your face well,” he said. “And if you vouch for those with you, they too. But I will not step away from my post. I am charged with guarding this door, no matter what.”
“What’s your name?” said Gisburne.
“Gilbert, sire,” said the guard.
“A good name,” said Gisburne, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Then you can help us, Gilbert. We must clear the keep. Get everyone out. Servants and staff.”
“They’re all out, fighting the fire.” He looked embarrassed. “And the guard is... depleted. There are just two, upon the battlement.”
And John... thought Gisburne. By now it barely came as a surprise to discover that Fitz Thomas had so abandoned the Prince. “Then we must secure this door,” he said.
“It will be easy enough to hold,” said Ranulph. “With men inside and out.”
Gisburne turned to Otto. “I need three of your men on this door with Gilbert here.” Otto bowed his head and barked the orders, then turned back to Gisburne. “No man will get in.”
“You’re not keeping him from getting in,” said Gisburne. “You’re keeping him from getting out.”
“A trap...” said Theobald.
Gisburne glanced back in the direction of Hood’s octagonal tower. “It’s as good at containing men as it is excluding them.”
“But if we have blocked the one entrance...” began Ranulph.
Mélisande nodded slowly. “You think he’s in there already...”
Gisburne said nothing, but simply gazed up at the great expanse of stone.
Gilbert frowned. “Sire, no one has passed this door who I did not recognise, and then only to leave.”
“And if the door is now barred,” said Ranulph, struggling to make sense of Gisburne’s strategy, “how is he to enter this trap?”
“This one doe
sn’t always use the door,” said Gisburne.
Theobald stared up at the hundred-foot-high stone wall. “It’s not possible...” he muttered.
“Trust me,” said Gisburne. “It is.”
All at once, Gisburne heard a sound from above, and several of the men looked up. Something was whirling through the air towards them. He drew back, dragging Mélisande with him. The object bounced on the roof of the forebuilding, somersaulted, then plunged into the darkness of the yard below. From its sound, it was a long length of wood. As it spun past, a spiked steel tip had gleamed briefly in the light of the fire: a guard’s polearm. Before any could speak, a light flared upon the battlements, and a bright object hurtled down from the parapet. As it roared past leaving a trail of flame, they heard the shriek and saw the flailing limbs of the burning guard. His body struck the ground with a thump. There were shouts from the yard – screams.
“Now we know,” said Galfrid.
“And I suppose now you’re going in there,” said Mélisande.
“I must,” said Gisburne.
“Before you even ask,” said Galfrid. “Yes, I’m bloody coming. I’ve swum through every shade of shit with my head on fire for you – this’ll be luxury by comparison.” Theobald looked askance at the strange little squire.
Gisburne nodded. “I’ll need seven more men with me,” he said.
“Six men,” said Mélisande. “One woman.”
“You’d better make the choice, Gisburne,” said Ranulph, “because there’s not one of us who will not volunteer.”
Gisburne turned to the youngest of the Hospitaller knights. “Search the perimeter of the keep. Look for a rope on the north wall.” He saw the knight’s disappointment, and put a hand on his shoulder. “This task is no less honourable, nor any less important.”
“If I find this rope?” said the knight.
“Burn it. And look for a crossbow. A large one. Something with which he may have shot a grapple over the battlements.”
“How do you know the rope will be on that wall?”
“Because it’s the shortest section and easiest to climb. Because it’s overlooked less than other parts of the keep. And because it’s what I did.” With a bow, the knight turned and hurried down the steps into the darkness.
Gisburne looked up towards the parapet. Nothing stirred, but he knew what waited there.
“We know he is above us. We will move up floor by floor in three groups of three. Upon the first floor there is but one stair to the next level, in the north-west tower. But from there, each group will take one tower each.”
“Three towers?” said Ranulph with a frown.
“There is no stair in the south-east tower, for it is over the chapel,” said Gisburne. “On the third floor we make contact, and if all is clear, move on up to the battlements. Theobald – you and your men take the south-west tower. Ranulph, Otto, and his man take the north-west. The north-east will be for me, Galfrid and Mélisande.”
All nodded. As they turned, Gilbert opened the thick wooden door, and one by one the small army entered the dark interior. Only Gisburne hesitated.
“What is it?” said Mélisande.
“Something I must do first...” he said. And he threw off the longbow and quiver and unbuckled his belt.
“Now?” said Mélisande coquettishly. “In front of strangers...?”
Without a word he removed his horsehide surcoat, then lifted the long coat of mail over his head and let it fall in a heap upon the stone flags. It had been his father’s – one of the few things left him when the old man died, along with his sword, and his horse. He pulled his black coat back on, and buckled his sword belt.
“You go without armour?” said Mélisande with a frown. “Today of all days?”
“It offers no protection,” said Gisburne. “It’s dead weight.” Then he bent the great longbow to nock the string, slung the quiver across his back once more, and strode into the keep.
LVI
THE INTERIOR OF the White Tower was like a tomb. Many times Gisburne had passed through the long hall into which they now stepped, but never had it possessed such an air of abandonment. There was no sound, no movement. Half the flambeaux had burnt out, casting most of the echoing space into deep shadow. The hearth was empty and cold, and if candles had been lit at all that day, they had long since guttered and died. The fire had all but gone out in the heart of England.
The temperature dropped perceptibly when they entered. In the extreme quiet, Gisburne heard Mélisande shudder. All drew their weapons as they crept into the gloom, their movements tense and cautious, as if watched by the silence – or something in it.
As he advanced, Gisburne felt something crack under his boot. The company tensed and froze at the sharp sound. He bent, poked at it with the stave of his bow. A chicken bone. How it got there, he could not guess. He flicked it away, and pressed on.
The whitewashed chamber was austere. Its purpose was clearly military, but it offered few other clues as to what lives had been lived or lost within it – just a few pieces of plain, functional furniture, mostly pushed back against the walls. Along the left side were deep recesses, cutting through a dozen or more feet of stone, each leading to a small arched window. Two rows of stout posts ran the full length of the chamber, and filling half the opposite wall was a long wooden rack stuffed with pole weapons. Beyond it, four archways opened onto the smaller, north-eastern chamber.
In the daily life of the castle, this great hall was presided over by the Lieutenant of the Tower, William Fitz Thomas, and mainly used by members of the now-absent Tower garrison. It did not seem a living space at all. At first glance, there were no decorations of any kind: no wall hangings, no tapestries – nothing, in fact, to signal that this was the entrance to a royal palace. As their eyes adjusted, however, a thick, darkly patterned curtain could be made out in the far north-west corner. It hung from a timber frame, completely concealing whatever lay within.
The Hospitallers advanced towards it. Theobald stood ready with his sword as another gripped the curtain and thrust it back. Dust rose. Inside was a broad but disordered pallet bed, a table, a chair – and nothing more.
They moved on.
Ranulph and the Germans were first into the eastern chamber. It was from the corner of this room – the personal chamber of the Constable, Walter de Coutances – that the single stair rose. The room was as plain and practical as that which came before, but small touches of ostentation – gaudy covers upon the bed, an elaborate iron perch intended for a hawk, a mirror made of glass – suggested that in de Coutances’s absence, Fitz Thomas had made it his own. Now, it was as devoid of life as its neighbour – except in one respect. On the table sat a goblet half-filled with wine, on a platter a fowl half eaten, and next to it an eating knife, as if only just laid down. A beeswax candle had melted to a pool in its dish, a feeble flame barely clinging to its wick.
Through both of these rooms all had to pass in order to reach the north-east stair. But at the far end of de Coutances’s quarters lay another chamber, closed behind a blackened wooden door.
Gisburne shouldered his great bow, took up a fresh candle from a box on the wall, and lit it from the half-dead flame. He turned to his companions. “Wait here,” he said, then, ignoring Mélisande’s furrowed brow, advanced towards the closed chamber, one hand curled about the flame, its vast, spidery shadow sliding across the ceiling.
The door opened with a squeal of dry iron, the sound echoing about the dark space and grating his nerves. He held the candle before him, pushing it into the pitch black, shadows dancing around arches and angles of stone as he turned. Here and there, empty eyes and stone faces stared back. But there was nothing human here. Not alive, anyway.
For a moment he paused, staring towards the chamber’s eastern end, and listened.
“What is this place?” said a hushed voice behind him. Gisburne looked back. It was Otto – a black ghost in the gloom, his eyes and the silver rivets of his surcoat glintin
g in the candle flame.
“The crypt,” said Gisburne. Otto frowned at the word. “A place for bones,” he explained. “Of saints. And sinners.”
Otto’s expression shifted. He looked about and crossed himself, taking a step back into the doorway as he did so.
Gisburne had seen enough, but no sooner had he turned back towards the door then there came a shuffling from deep within the shadows. Then an odd sound – almost a whimper. The sounds were muffled, as if buried behind feet of stone.
“You hear something?” said Otto, raising his sword.
“No,” said Gisburne. He did not turn back into the crypt, nor did he allow space for Otto to pass. “It’s nothing.”
Otto looked at him for a moment. “Rat, maybe?”
“Yes,” said Gisburne. “Just a rat.” And he herded Otto ahead of him, out of the dark chamber. Otto stepped forward, as if to close the door behind them – to shut that cold space and whatever it contained.
“Leave it,” said Gisburne, and moved on.
THE NARROW SPIRAL stair had one flambeau still lit near the foot of it. Above it, all disappeared into black. Gisburne extinguished and discarded his candle, retrieved three unlit torches from the empty hall, then lit them one at a time. He passed one to Theobald and one to Ranulph, and kept the third. Then he led the way on up the stairway towards the second floor. Weird, shifting shadows cast about the curved stone wall as they climbed.
It was cramped – so much so they were forced to ascend in single file. If anything came at them here, wielding a sword would be difficult – the bow would be impossible. A single armed man at the door to the next floor would have no difficulty holding them back.
But the doorway was empty.
With tentative step, every sound magnified by the night, they crept into the still air of the first chamber.
Although a near duplicate of de Coutances’s room below, the court chamber had a very different aspect. Within it were long benches, at the far end a low wooden dais with a heavy, elaborately carved throne, and behind it, hanging so as to cover almost the entire wall, the banner of the King. A gold lion as big as a horse rose rampant upon a field of red. The symbol of Henry II, to signify his kingship over England.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 83
